Rebel Train: A Civil War Novel

Chapter 16

Greer did not watch the train out of sight. Cursing and gasping for breath after his futile chase, he headed back to the others. Schmidt and Frost looked about as worn out as he felt, he decided. Both men wore hangdog expressions on their faces, and they were battered and dirty. It was exhausting, working the car's handle up and down, mile after mile, as they chased the Chesapeake. Now they had been forced to stop at the gap in the rails and watch the train disappear once again. They were watching him, wondering what to do next.

"Well, I reckon that's that," Frost said. He sounded relieved.

"Jump down and grab a corner of the car," Greer growled. "You, too, Schmidt."

"What?"

"You heard me. We're going to carry this thing across the gap here and go after them."

"You're crazy, Greer," Frost said. "You've gone goddamn crazy on us. We ain't goin' to catch that train. Not now. Ain't that right, Oscar?"

The big German scratched his beard. "Why not?" he finally said. "Greer is right about us letting the train be stolen. Someone will have to be punished for this, and that someone might be us if we don't catch the raiders. Otherwise, we'll never have jobs on a railroad again." He climbed off the car and claimed the back corner. "We have to go after that train. There is no other choice."

"Hell, you're both crazy."

Still, Frost jumped down and joined in as the other two men began the arduous task of moving the hand car across the gap in the rails. It was only a distance of twelve feet, but the iron and wood structure was heavy and the wheels did not roll easily over open ground. Carrying the car was out of the question because of its weight. Instead, all three men put their shoulders against the back of the car and pushed. Inch by inch, foot by foot, the car crept forward. Finally, after much heaving, sweating and cursing, they crossed the gap and lined the wheels up for the final push back onto the rails.

The Chesapeake was nowhere in sight. Even the telltale smoke was gone, leaving an empty, blue bowl of autumn sky.

Schmidt swore in disgust. He put his shoulder to the back of the car and single-handedly forced it onto the rails again.

Greer jumped aboard. "Come on," he said. "Let's get going."

With a sense of resignation, the other men scrambled up and took hold of the pump handle. Greer winced as he gripped the metal. Unlike Frost, whose hands were like leather from handling wood all day, Schmidt and Greer did little real labor anymore and their hands were blistered and raw. Still, Greer shoved down mightily, ignoring the pain, and the car began to roll. They took up the chase once more, although they seemed impossibly far behind, and too slow to ever hope of catching up again.

Colonel Percy watched the scenery flash by as the Chesapeake built speed. Beside him in the locomotive's cab, Cephas Wilson opened the throttle even wider. Wind howled beyond the glass windows enclosing the cab as the locomotive rushed west. Hank Cunningham scurried between the firebox and tender, feeding the engine's incredible hunger for wood.

Percy laughed out loud. He was in the best spirits he'd been in since that day in Richmond when Fletcher had summoned him to Colonel Norris's office at the Confederate Secret Service. Up until now, Percy had half-expected the Yankees to catch them at any moment. Lord knows there had been enough opportunities for things to go wrong — crossing the Potomac, gathering at the train station in Ellicott Mills, even taking the train under the noses of Yankee infantry, not to mention those relentless pursuers whom they had finally lost. The stakes were high. Capture would mean death at the end of a rope for himself and his men because they would all be considered spies, not soldiers. Percy didn't plan on allowing himself or any of his men to be taken alive, if it came to that.

They had succeeded so far in spite of all the odds against them, and for the first time, Percy allowed himself to believe they might actually get Lincoln to Richmond, after all. At the moment, anything seemed possible.

"We'll make good time until the Parr's Ridge grade, sir," Wilson shouted, interrupting Percy's thoughts. "That will slow us down some. Just beyond Mount Airy is the Monocacy River. There's a bridge, and I'm sure the Yankees have it guarded." He sounded apprehensive. The crossing — known officially as Frederick Junction for the rail spur that connected the city of Frederick to the main B&O line — would have troops guarding it.

"We'll be there and gone before the Yankees know it," Percy said, trying to reassure Wilson. In reality, he was worried about the guard at the Monocacy crossing, but if the luck they'd had so far held, they would have surprise on their side. "We won't so much as slow down."

"We'll see about the bridge, sir." The engineer sounded doubtful. "We'll see."

"How fast are we going?" Percy asked. The ground beneath them was a blur.

"Sixty miles per hour, Colonel," Wilson said, the tone of his voice betraying some amazement. "I ain't got a stopwatch, but I reckon that's about right."

Sixty miles per hour. A mile a minute. It hardly seemed possible. Percy was amazed. The worries of the past few days slipped even further away, and he put looming problems such as the Monocacy crossing out of his mind for the moment.

"Ever run a train through Virginia this fast?"

"Yes, sir. From time to time. We've got locomotives that can manage sixty." He cracked a smile. "Mostly it's the tracks that's slow."

"These Yankees know how to build a railroad," Percy agreed. So far, all the bridges had been iron or stone, all the tracks well-tended. Far different from Virginia, with its wooden bridges and tracks left in ruins because of the war.

"Too bad these tracks don't go clear to Richmond," Percy said. "We'd be there in time for Mr. Lincoln to be Jefferson Davis's dinner guest."

"With any luck, we'll get there all the same in a few days."

Percy looked out again at the rapidly passing countryside. Beautiful country. The rolling landscape was a patchwork of woods and fields. The corn and wheat had been harvested recently, but it was easy to see this was rich farming country. He wouldn't mind coming back to spend some time here, maybe when the war was over, although it was getting so he could hardly remember when there hadn't been a war. Compared to the bleak, untended fields in Virginia, Maryland looked like the land of plenty, even in mid-November. There were woods, too, filled with timber, and while most of the trees had lost their leaves, some still clung tenaciously to the oaks they passed. Here and there a flaming red sumac stood out defiantly against the brown and gray landscape.

"Train on the right," Wilson called, and Percy shook off his reverie in an instant.

The engine stood on a siding with four freight cars behind it. She was under steam, but had evidently pulled off the main track to let the bigger, faster Chesapeake pass.

It was an ugly little machine, with small wheels and a massive upright cylinder like a barrel on a wagon. The long, ungainly driving bar that powered the wheels gave the locomotive an insect-like appearance.

"What the hell is that?" Percy asked.

"It's called a Grasshopper," Wilson said. "It's an older engine that the B&O still uses for local runs. You want me to stop so we can wreck her? Some Yank might wise up and come after us on that thing."

Already, they had roared past the siding and left it behind. To stop now would cost them too much time. Percy scoffed. "Ha! That old thing? Catch us?" He waved toward the track ahead. "Go man, go! Open her up."

The Chesapeake roared along at an exhilarating pace, sending up a black plume of smoke, like a challenge. The Grasshopper engine was soon out of sight and forgotten.

It was all Percy could do not to whoop out loud.

Flynn watched the woods and fields fly past beyond the windows. The train was running at a terrific pace, swaying from side to side like a ship at sea. He had to admit the Yankees would be hard-pressed to catch them now, at this speed.

An uneasy quiet had fallen over the passengers, who watched their Confederate captors sullenly. Captain Fletcher had been sent to help them guard the car, and the rhythmic motion was putting him to sleep. Flynn noticed the captain nodding off at the back of the car. How anyone could sleep just then Flynn didn't know, but it was clear the action and sleepless nights of the last forty-eight hours had caught up to Fletcher. Not that Fletcher was worth a damn awake, anyhow. They would have been better off if Colonel Percy had simply shot the man for refusing to work.

Would Percy really have shot him? Just two days ago, Flynn wouldn't have thought so, but now he wasn't so sure. He had discovered that not only was Percy a very determined individual, but there was a bit of madness about him. Percy wasn't quite crazy, but he was definitely unpredictable.

His thoughts were interrupted by a groan from Henrietta Parker. "Oh, this is terrible," she complained. "At this speed we'll run off the tracks and be killed."

Flynn moved toward her. He saw her husband touch the back of her hand, as a warning.

"Hush now, dear," Albert Parker said. "We don't want to upset these… these Rebels."

Flynn grinned down wickedly at them. "That's right, ma'am. If you upset me I might have to shoot your husband."

Albert paled. His wife, however, looked furious. "I shall have a front row seat at your hanging, Sergeant."

"With any luck, Mrs. Parker, ma'am, there won't be any hangings. You said yourself the train might wreck and kill us all." At that moment, the speeding train struck an uneven spot in the rails and rocked wildly. Mrs. Parker gasped.

"That's quite enough."

Flynn turned. The fat little lawyer, Prescott, stood and waddled up the aisle, struggling to keep his balance as the car pitched from side to side. The expression on his face wavered between fear and outrage.

Casually, Flynn leveled the Le Mat revolver at Prescott's chest. He cocked the hammer with an audible click. "Think about what you're doing, Mr. Prescott."

Prescott stopped. His doughy, white hands clenched and unclenched. "There's no call to be tormenting ladies… Sergeant. Are you a soldier or a thug?"

Flynn was in no mood for a lecture. "At the moment I'm just a man pointing a gun at you, Mr. Prescott. Now shut the hell up and sit down."

At the back of the car, the door into the next car slammed shut with a bang. One of the passengers had slipped out. Cursing, Flynn realized Prescott's protest must have been a diversion, and he felt like a fool because he had fallen for it.

Flynn grabbed Prescott's shoulder and shoved him aside. All he could think about was going after whoever had slipped out the door. He started to shout at Benjamin, in case the boy hadn't noticed.

"Lad, we've got—”

As Prescott fell away, Flynn saw the Baltimore dandy crouched in the aisle behind the fat lawyer. He had been hidden behind Prescott's bulk. With a grunt, Charlie Gilmore launched himself at Flynn.

Caught off guard, Flynn didn't have time to react. Gilmore slugged him in the belly and Flynn doubled over in pain. The Le Mat flew from his hand. He couldn't catch his breath. A fist smashed into his chin and Flynn went down.

As Gilmore's well-shined shoe stomped down at Flynn's head, he rolled just fast enough that the heel only skidded along his temple. Flynn kicked, catching Gilmore in the knee and throwing him off balance.

Gilmore stumbled, giving Flynn time to roll to his feet. Gilmore reached for the pistol in his belt.

"You done asked for it," he snarled.

Flynn hit him before he could get the gun free, putting all the power of his shoulders into the punch. Gilmore collapsed, his pistol flying.

Benjamin jumped to help Flynn, but the lawyer flung himself at the boy. Prescott outweighed him by a good eighty pounds and the boy found himself pinned in the seat. Benjamin wriggled and squirmed but Prescott's weight bore down on him.

"Let me up!"

"Hell no!"

In the aisle, Gilmore was back on his feet and facing Flynn warily, fists at the ready. Flynn glanced around for his gun, but the Le Matt had slid out of sight.

He knew things had gone badly wrong. In another moment, all the passengers might get out of hand. They would have a mutiny, and there would be no stopping it.

Where the hell was Fletcher? To his astonishment, Flynn saw that the captain was still slumped in his seat, his eyes closed and mouth hanging open, sleeping soundly.

"Fletcher! Wake up! Shoot this son of a— "

Gilmore rushed him. Flynn tried to dodge, but the narrow aisle gave him no room. The other man grappled him around the waist and they both tumbled into the seats. A woman screamed and Flynn glimpsed Fletcher running for the door, away from the fight.

Gilmore jabbed at his kidneys with a series of rabbit punches. Flynn swatted him in the side of the head. With a snarl, Gilmore butted his head into Flynn's nose. Flynn's eyes ran and he felt a hot trickle of blood from his nose. Gilmore tried it again and Flynn bit his ear. As Gilmore howled, Flynn slammed up with the heel of his hand and caught him under the chin so hard that his teeth cracked together. Then Flynn felt himself kneed in the groin and experienced an awful, excruciating pain that took his breath away. He bit Gilmore's ear even harder.

They rolled into the aisle. Neither man could get the upper hand in such a confined space and they grappled and gouged.

Then Flynn remembered the horse pistol in his coat pocket. He fumbled for it, wondering if the thing would even fire.

As Flynn groped in his pocket, that gave Gilmore an opening, and he got both hands around Flynn's neck, digging his thumbs deep into the throat on each side of the windpipe. Flynn's vision swam with black dots. He was in trouble. His fingertips touched the pistol.

The other man had his knees on Flynn's chest now, pinning him to the floor. Flynn couldn't breathe. His hand slipped around the butt of the old pistol. He barely had the strength to drag the weapon free. He managed to pull back the hammer, wondering whether or not there was a percussion cap in place. He had never bothered to check.

The hands tightened even more on his throat and all Flynn could see was the savage face grinning down at him as if through a fog. With one final, desperate effort, he jammed the muzzle into Gilmore's side. For just an instant, Gilmore's eyes went wide, knowing what was about to happen.

And then Flynn pulled the trigger.

The .54-caliber ball ripped through the other man's body. The clothes touching the muzzle smoldered after the blast. The gory hole in his back, torn by the large ball of lead, was big enough to swallow a fist. Overhead, the ceiling was splashed with blood. Gilmore's body slumped to one side and Flynn shoved it off.

"That was close," he said. He was breathing hard. It had been a tough fight, maybe not the toughest of his life, but he didn't want to think about what might have happened if he hadn't been able to reach the pistol in time.

Nearby, a woman was gasping in astonishment at the life-and-death struggle she had just witnessed. He could also hear Mrs. Parker. "Oh my," she kept repeating in shock. "Oh my."

"Shut up, woman," Flynn snapped. "For the love of Christ, shut up."

Mrs. Parker didn't need to be told twice. She touched her fingertips to her lips and fell silent.

A moment later, the door to the car flew open and Captain Fletcher rushed in, followed by Hazlett and Pettibone. All three had their revolvers out. The blast from Flynn's horse pistol had left the air sulfurous and tinged with blue smoke, and the three soldiers squinted to see through the haze.

Flynn jerked his chin at a seat nearby, where Benjamin was still struggling with the ungainly bulk of the attorney. Pettibone walked over, reversed his Colt, and clubbed Prescott behind the ear with the butt of the pistol. Prescott went limp, and Benjamin managed to wriggle out from under him.

"You should have shot that fat bastard," Hazlett said. Pettibone ignored him. Going to Gilmore's body on the floor, he rolled it all the way over with the toe of his boot.

"Yup," he drawled. "He's a dead 'un. Half his guts is on the ceiling."

Mrs. Parker whimpered again.

Hazlett grinned down maliciously at Flynn, who still on his knees in the aisle, rubbing his throat. "What's the matter, Irish, can't handle the civilians?"

"Go to hell," Flynn said wearily, and reached up to grab Pettibone's offered hand. Back on his feet, Flynn looked around and quickly assessed the situation. Gilmore was dead. Prescott was on the floor, shaking his head groggily. Terrified, Mr. and Mrs. Parker cowered in their seat. The faces of the other passengers ran the gamut from looks of horror to blank stares as they tried not to meet the raiders' eyes.

One face, however, was not there.

"Someone's missing," Flynn said. "I saw the door open to the next car."

"It's the woman," Benjamin said. "The one who was with him. She's gone."

"She's probably planning to jump off the train," Flynn said. He limped toward the door. "I'm going after her."

"Brave man," Hazlett said sarcastically.

Flynn found the Le Mat and holstered it, thinking he wouldn't need it against a woman. He opened the door to the howling, open air. The train was still flying at a reckless speed. Seeing the ground rush past in a blur, he doubted the woman had jumped. That would be suicide. There was only one place she could be.

Flynn crossed the bucking platform toward the next car, which carried the passenger's baggage. None of the raiders had explored the freight car because they had been too busy keeping the passengers in line and ripping up rails.

Flynn tried the door. It wouldn't budge, so he hit it with his shoulder, this time throwing his weight into it. The door popped open.

He stepped inside, but couldn't see a thing. The interior was nearly pitch black. What little light there was leaked in from around the shades drawn over the windows and from the cracks under the rear door, which opened toward Lincoln's car.

Flynn squinted into the darkness. "Come out, ma'am," he said. "Save us both the trouble."

No answer came. Not that he expected one.

Swearing under his breath, Flynn stepped into the blackness. He kept the Le Mat in its holster. There had been enough bloodletting for one day, he thought, and Flynn had no intention of shooting a woman.

Carefully, he moved deeper into the car. Like a blind man, he became acutely aware of smells: oiled leather, dust, moldy canvas. The place needed a good airing out.

A sound, somewhere ahead. He paused, listened. Heard only the clacking of wheels on rails. The swaying motion inside the dark car was disorienting.

"Come out, woman," he snapped impatiently.

There. That noise again. A swishing of skirts? Sounded like it was behind him.

Flynn spun, his hand on the revolver.

Nothing.

Unnerved, he shuffled toward the windows. After what he had just been through, he was in no mood for a game of cat and mouse with the woman, whoever she was.

He reached toward a window, intending to let some light in, when he felt the cold touch of razor-sharp steel against his throat.

Flynn froze.